


life is like that, sometimes

by newyorktopaloalto



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Organized Crime, Betrayal, Character Death, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has Issues, Torture, Violence, Winteriron Reverse Bang 2018, mushroom hunters are particularly good at finding dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-07-17 06:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16090061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorktopaloalto/pseuds/newyorktopaloalto
Summary: Tony Stark, head of the elusive Jarvis Family, and his second-in-command—his husband, James Barnes—had almost taken over the city of New York. Until, that is, the newest DA vowed to see them brought to justice. A mob!AU"That's why they keep telling this story. It's the only story."





	life is like that, sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the WinterIron reverse!bang, and is based on the absolutely amazing [art](https://ezdoodlesstuff.tumblr.com/post/179147970361/mafiaau-for-the-winteriron-reverse-bang-i-was) of ibreathebooks-42/ezdoodlesstuff on tumblr; I really hope you enjoy this take on what you drew! I had a lot of fun working on this, and I'm really thankful that I was a part of the bang. 
> 
> As always, I don't own any of the Marvel characters and/or situations. The title and the quotes between the parts come from the novel __Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente.
> 
> Content warning for a lot of things, the basics of which are included in the tags. If you would like a more detailed warning, go ahead and mosey on over to the end of the work. I have a lot to say about the world, its people, and the morality of this particular universe, and it's all at the end notes as well, so feel free to take a look through that first as well, if you'd like. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys this!
> 
> Alternatively titled: there are no firebirds in new york

### 

_“There is no better teacher of rough necessity than bad luck, and you will have great use of [bad luck], I promise.”_

### 

“You know, when my mother hired an Irish-Catholic boy, I didn't expect...” there was a pause and Steve looked up from where he was digging in the storm-softened, spring soil. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, uncaring of the line of dirt that undoubtedly now marred it, and leaned against the handle of the shovel in order to actually give Tony his attention; the prospect of a break from labor actually didn't factor into his decision as it normally would—Steve had been wound up since earlier that day, and the back-breaking work of digging actually helped to zen him out more than any number of punching bags could ever hope to do. 

“What'd you not?” he called up, gesturing for Tony to hand him the water bottle that stood technically within Steve's reach, but just far enough that it would be less of an inconvenience for Tony to do something about it than himself. With an indignant sniff, Tony reached out and, with two fingers, handed Steve the plastic bottle. 

“I didn't expect someone who would give me this sort of problem.” 

He kneeled down, looking down the few inches so he could glare into Steve's placid face. 

“Conclusion?” 

Tony gestured—his motions so Italian that Steve believed them to come from a movie rather than an actual unconscious gesture that the other man made—to the tarp covered heap at his side. 

“That's hardly nothing,” Steve waved off, guzzling the rest of the bottle before hurling it up and out, the trajectory deftly beaming Tony in the side of the head; Tony, for his part, let the action slide without anything more than a begrudgingly amused grunt. 

“'Hardly nothing.'” A snort as Tony stood up. “This isn't some sort of willy-nilly potters meadow, Rogers, this is _my_ potters meadow, and it would suit you well not to leave it stuffed to the brim with dead bodies. Leave some room for the new help.” 

“Just one last one for old time's sake, don't want Sam's first night to be, well...” he petered off as he gestured vaguely around the both of them; if they were in a movie, this would be where the camera panned out, showing that their glib commentary had been watched dutifully by the unblinking eyes of the DA, as well as the 6 by 6 hole that he would soon fill—the man never stood a chance. 

“Not that dirty, considering,” Tony gave to him begrudgingly, and Steve glanced up to see him toeing the man's head to the side to inspect the entry wound, “you think you'll lose your style when you take the job?” 

“It's a bullet in the back'a the head, there's not much style to it.” With that, Steve hauled himself out of the grave, looked behind him to make sure it was to his liking, and rolled his predecessor into his final resting place. 

Both he and Tony crossed themselves, before Tony took up the second shovel and helped Steve fill in the site. Two-thirds of their job was done when it started to rain. 

“Thought it wasn't supposed to be for an hour or two. You know, I'm gonna get back and be damp and James'll only laugh when I start sneezing,” Tony groused, his hair starting to droop down from where it was usually slicked back. 

“Can't never predict weather; also, I'd laugh at you too,” Steve grunted back, smirking as Tony nodded to himself in agreement and started to shovel once more. 

It was silent. 

“I don't know what I'm gonna do without you, Rogers.” Steve didn't look up—he knew Tony well enough to just keep working as the other man spoke. “I wouldn't be where I was now without you—we both know that.” 

“What we're doing is just the next step of the plan,” Steve pointed out when it seemed that Tony had said what he set out to. “And Sam'll be just as good as I was, probably better.” 

He snuck a fond look over his shoulder at Tony. “I let you get away with way too much and was also relegated to never being around where you were actually at.” 

“Yeah, but now you're going to technically be _my_ boss.” 

Steve snorted. “I'd like to see anyone try to be the boss of you, Tony.” 

They finished the grave and Steve arranged the top soil in a manner befitting the current drizzling—soon to become a thunderstorm. 

“Hey,” Tony called out as Steve started to head to his own car, “good luck tomorrow, DA Rogers, you're going to become a cliché.” 

“I don't know what you're talkin' about,” Steve replied easily, closing the trunk on the shovels and the coveralls he had been wearing, “I'm out to rid this good city of criminals, both petty and organized. As my first act as DA, I am going to pursue all avenues into the disappearance of former DA, Francis Mendelsson, with the FBI on hold if need be.”

He paused. 

“Too enthusiastic?”

“A touch,” Tony replied, unsurprised as Steve stepped up to him and bear-hugged his, now-former, boss. 

“Goodbye, Tony.” 

Tony patted Steve on the back, and though Steve knew it wasn't goodbye in a final sense, it was the ending of a dynamic that they had perfected four or so years years ago. 

“Goodbye, Steve.” 

“You'll like him, I promise.” 

“I trust you.” 

Steve nodded, decisive and trying to keep from tearing up. He pretended not to notice Tony doing much the same for himself. 

“Let's take over this damn town.”

### 

_“There is only one question: Who is to rule? And that is never answered with words.”_

### 

# After Two Years, Missing DA's Daughter Finally Speaks Out

In a bizarre twist of fate, Francis Mendelsson's estranged daughter, Stephanie Mendelsson, spoke out against the police's official explanation of the former DA's two-year disappearance: suicide. With no apparent motivational force—or anything left behind to indicate his apparent state of mind—this is not the first time Mendelsson's status of 'missing, presumed dead by own hand' has been questioned, but it is the first time another reasonable explanation has been given. 

We here at onlyafterthetruth.com have gained an exclusive interview with Stephanie Mendelsson, in which she explains her doubts behind the official report and casts light on...

**_for full access to this article, please enable cookies on this site—we're not the government, we're not going to screw you over with spy equipment_ **

* * *

“Uh, Tony?” 

Tony glanced up from his emails and gestured for Natalia to let the young man through the doorway. 

“What can I do you for, Peter?” he asked, cracking his neck on either side and ignoring the wince he could see coming from James in his peripheral. 

“I was wondering if I could get a lesson?”

“You finished your article?” 

The younger man nodded, mumbling something about Wade helping him—Tony had absolutely no doubt that there was only a little help and a lot of distraction—and Tony wished that he could give the blogger a better answer than what he could actually say at present. 

“It's not a great time,” he sighed out, gesturing for Peter to sit down in the chair facing his desk. “I'm under surveillance.” 

Peter tried not to show it—would not show it after a couple more years under Tony's tutelage—but his mouth gaped open the slightest bit in obvious surprise. “For what?” 

“Corporate fraud.” 

“Who?”

Tony glanced behind him as a growl lodged itself in James' throat—his second's obvious displeasure at the situation unable to culminate into anything more violent than vocal made him twitchy, which made Tony slightly fear for anyone below a certain level of importance within the organization crossing the man's path—and tried to stymie whatever response James was inevitably going to give; Peter would take over the business one day, but today was not that day, and he didn't need to know James' plan on how he was going to dismantle everyone who ever dared to cross them. 

“The police.” 

“What about the DA's office?” 

“If—and that's a big if,” he added, if nothing else than to try and stem Peter's worries, “if the police find enough evidence to charge me, we will have this conversation. Not a second before.

“But what this means is that lessons are going to be postponed until we can find another location, okay?” 

Peter nodded, and Tony could tell he was disappointed, but he hid it well and Tony couldn't help but feel a swell of pride for his protegee—it had taken a couple more years than expected, but he had finally found the right person to take over his legacy when he decided to give it all up for retirement; well, retirement or death, but Tony didn't actually like to think about which of the two outcomes was more likely in his line of work. 

“We can still see one another—it would be suspicious if we suddenly stopped all contact, but it will have to mostly actually be casual.” 

“Such a hardship,” Peter deadpanned, “having to actually hang out with you and James as opposed to working while you stand over my shoulder, watching. What will I do when we marathon Boston Legal? Just die, I guess.”

A smile was threatening to overtake the whole of Tony's face, and for the first time in awhile, he let it out. Stress was unbecoming on everyone, even a genius millionaire like himself, and he could feel his tension lines recede just the slightest of depths as he stifled a laugh. 

“We don't have to invite you,” James pointed out easily, and Tony finally let out a tiny snort as Peter's face took on an expression that Tony could only describe as a mix of woeful and doe-eyed; by Peter's renewed smile, James had a similar reaction to Tony, which was further confirmed by the heavy hand that landed on Tony's shoulder. 

He leaned back into the hand, and raised an eyebrow at Peter in agreement. “I mean, if it'll make you die, we don't want to be a part of that. Imagine the blood James here would have to clean up after Wilson goes through half of my security team.” 

“Because James would beat Wade?” 

Tony threw a look over his shoulder and smirked at James, who rolled his eyes preemptively, and widened his stance a little bit, his left hand going into his jeans pocket; Tony reached up and patted James' hand in a sort of faux-concillatory motion. “Though I loathe to disparage my darling James here, it's debatable.” 

“I have a decade on Wilson.” 

“That's soon to not be in your favor,” Tony pointed out, poking at the veins that were starting to pop out on the back of James' hand. 

“Wow,” James let out, “what are you trying to tell me?” 

“You know exactly what.” 

“I lied, it's now. Now is when I'm going to die,” Peter groused, and as Tony looked into the corner of the room, only to encounter Natalia's own grimace, she was of a similar mindset. 

“Come over around seven, we'll have dinner,” Tony finally stated, letting a few seconds go by in silence, “just the three of us.” 

Peter nodded and, about to say something else, was interrupted by Natalia heading to the door and opening it. “It's Wilson.” 

“Wade?” 

“No, just Sam,” replied Sam, walking into the room with an awkward wave. 

“Well?” Tony demanded, and Peter stopped by the door where he was about to leave—at that moment Tony didn't care anymore, because Sam's expression brought nothing good. 

“You're getting indicted.” 

“They can indict a paper bag,” Tony dismissed him, standing up from his seat and clenching the edge of the desk in his grip. 

“They're getting the DA to prosecute.” 

“God—” Tony cut himself off and started swearing viciously in Italian, hardly noticing as Natalia ushered Peter out of the room, Peter's head swiveling back to witness what was happening but not actually attempting to stop the woman from pushing him away. 

“Damn it! Son of a fucking—!” he took the glass tchotchke that James handed him and threw it at the wall, adding a second tchotchke to the pile of glass at the carpet for good measure. “Jesus H. fucking Christ on a cracker!” A third pile of glass, this one apart from the others, graced the carpet before Tony finally took a breath. 

“Okay.” He paused, taking a second breath, a third, before continuing, “let's figure this out—get ahead of the game.” 

Tony nodded to himself, starting his pace around the room. 

“Let's do this.”

* * *

  
**June 2  
CONFIDENTIAL, FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY**

_Due to the nature, scope, time, and location of the alleged crimes perpetrated by (1) Stark Ind., (2) Anthony E. Stark, and (3) any affiliations of the first two thereof, I do not believe it is within our individual jurisdiction to exact any jurisprudence without cooperation of neighboring districts. As all the crimes we are investigating are in the state of New York, it is inadvisable at this time to involve any national agency._

_Regardless of suspicion, however, further evidence, both physical and circumstantial, IS required before a search warrant of the broad scope the department is requesting will be considered._

_This office has doubts about prosecution going through in any meaningful capacity, and it can only be suspected that the New York liaison will feel the same, so unless the office of the DA has anything solid, it is the best interest of the state and of the office of the DA to remain vigilant, but in the background._

_S. C._

* * *

“Well, that's somethin',” James pointed out inelegantly, skimming through the rest of the photocopied documents with a disinterested eye—Tony sighed, tiny but not imperceptible, if James' askance look served him anything. 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, vaguely ill at ease and knowing that it wasn't likely to go away anytime in the near future, “but I feel as though putting Rogers in as the DA was supposed to solve these types of problems, not suddenly exacerbate them.” 

“He just wants to look tough on crime,” James pointed out—the falter, however, was clear in his timbre, and Tony didn't know how he felt that Steve's only friend from before they had been introduced to Tony's life was just as doubtful as the man to whom Steve had sworn to protect both the interests and the body of. 

“There were more convenient ways, more publically approved of ways—for God's sake, things that involve rape, or domestic violence, or misappropriated political funds, or puppies and kittens and no-kill shelters if you want to get a fucking hard on for your sympathy porn—but what does he do?”

“He goes after the one thing that he has inside information of.” Natalia's grave, still slightly accented voice answered Tony's rhetorical question; he nodded at the red head lingering in the corners of his office, before watching as she focused her sight once more on the two screens that showed the constant surveillance of the main house and the roaming surveillance of the significantly larger acreage of the estate. 

“He goes after someone who he thinks he knows well enough to bring down,” Tony reiterates, ignoring Natalia now mumbling code into her earpiece and turning his gaze once more onto his husband. 

“I think—” he sighed, mussing up his hair before taking James' hand into his own, “I think we need to consider that Steve—” 

“Tony—” James interrupted him, a sort of strangled warning in his tone that Tony ignored easily through years of being witness to dying pleas for mercy. 

“We have to consider," he amended himself, " maybe more than consider at this point—with these here, especially—” he gestured to the box of documents half-emptied on his desk, “that Steve betrayed us.” 

The transition from 'me' to 'us' took Tony the last eight years to perfect, and even then he still found himself to, on occasion, blithely refer to their organization as 'mine,' which, while historically accurate, didn't actually encompass what Tony took on when Jarvis died and what he turned it into when he understood the magnitude of what he could accomplish with such little influence. James—never let it be said that the man was slow on the uptake—understood the significance of using the word 'us' immediately; for the last five years of their lives, there had been no 'me' and 'you', only the ubiquitous 'us' that never felt more crucial than it did at that moment. 

“For what?” James asked, and it took such a small amount of time for the other man to accept, that Tony realized that it had been just as long that his husband had been harboring doubts about their friend, that Tony had not been the only one to see the tides shifting in their disfavor with every action the DA had taken in the last two years. 

“Well, if I knew, then it wouldn't be base speculation, would it?” Tony bit out, knowing that he would regret his irritability in less than a hot minute, and sure enough, his internal contrition started as soon as James set his jaw in the familiar, hard line that meant Tony had just done something that hurt more than the other man would have liked to let on—for both good and bad, though, they knew one another too well not to know the minute expressions of the other. 

“Then that's our next step,” was all James actually said, but quirked his lips up the slightest bit when Tony brushed his fingers lightly in apology for his comment. 

“Excuse me, Tony,” Natalia interrupted, the frown on his face betraying more about the situation than anything else—Natalia was not one for overt emotion when it didn't suit her, and Tony could find no reason why this would be a moment in time when it did, “Virginia is asking me if a DD Dugan was scheduled or expected to arrive tonight with a shipment to be delivered here. He states that he is in a crunch of time and a quick delivery would be best.” 

Tony blinked, blinked again, and shot up from his chair as the third blink landed home, the smallest part of his mind noticing James do the same from his own chair. 

“Don't let him in!” Tony commanded, Natalia already barking out the command to Pepper before the second word had come out of his mouth, her own orders to secure the parameters following on the heels of Happy's voice in Tony's ear stating that three black and whites were headed straight for the estate. 

“Call Fury and give the phone to me when he answers,” Tony ordered James who, to his benefit, only nodded and took out his phone. 

“Natalia,” Tony added when the woman turned to look as she finished her own conversation with Wanda and Pepper, “I need you to go to the front gates and deal with things there, okay?

“And watch Izzy and Sam.” 

“Yes.” With that final confirmation, Natalia exited the room post-haste, and Tony wondered what was in his tone that made the woman book it out of his office like that—this _was_ an urgent situation, but Tony thought he had been a little better at keeping a calm head when under the gun—and then realized it was most likely the fact that none of them—

None of them had seen this coming. Maybe that did say something about how well Steve knew them. 

And about his betrayal. 

James handing the cell to him jarred Tony out of his thoughts, and he offered his husband a wan smile—their biggest test, indeed. 

“Commissioner Fury, I'm calling because there seems to be a solicitor at my door, when I've specifically posted a sign at my front gate. I have neither idea nor interest in what Dugan is offering, and he is currently refusing to remove himself from my private property—thus, my call to you.

“I know this technically qualifies as a civil matter, but I thought it best for it to go directly to you, considering our professional relationship.” 

A pause. Tony smirked—maybe preemptively, but when Fury had something important to say, he usually said it quickly and forcefully. 

“So you're denying knowing Dugan?” 

“I know him,” Tony admitted easily, wondering idly—James in agreement, if his furrowed brow was any indication—at Fury's obvious play, “I just don't know why he's at my gate with a flatbed and shipping container at eleven thirty at night.” 

“And you're saying that I do?” 

“ _You're_ saying that,” Tony replied, and they both understood that neither of them would get a scintilla of information out of the other, but they didn't know any different than to, in any way possible, pull some wool over the other's eyes. 

Tony knew he wasn't meant to hear the snort that denoted a detente between the two of them, but he did, and there they were. 

“Happy birthday, Nick—sorry it didn't go exactly as planned,” Tony finally stated, after both of their wire taps showed the other man was exactly where expected. 

“Consolation gift, check out the pit on 16th and Fitzgerald, I heard there's something goin' on there tonight,” James added helpfully, smiling at Tony when he rolled his eyes good-naturedly—that little stunt would set that bar back a couple months income and clientele, but it was one of their smaller joints, and both Tony and James knew that keeping Nick happy with the smaller, more manageable crimes went a long way with the cooling of their previously more contentious relationship; it was a thin line they found themselves standing upon, but one that Tony knew he and James would, ultimately, gain the better end of when all was said and done. 

“And tell your officers to get Dugan outta here—I'll watch to make sure nothing's accidentally left behind, yeah?” 

With that final edict, Tony hung up the phone, placing it into James' outstretched hand before making his way over to the screens Natalia usually manned—James followed him silently, dogging Tony's movements until they stopped in front of the desk, wrapping his body around Tony's, his chin on Tony's shoulder, as he turned up the volume and they watched Dugan and the cops, convene, linger, and then finally leave their estate. 

“Natalia is going to lead a perimeter check,” James pointed out unnecessarily, and when Tony nodded, he could feel James' five-o-clock shadow rub against the thin skin of his neck. 

“I need you to talk to Sam and Izzy,” Tony replied. He turned, raking a hand through James' hair as the other rested on the taller man's clavicle. “I need to know which one is responsible for this.” 

“It's Izzy.” 

“I need you to make sure,” Tony reiterated, and James nodded after less than a second of hesitation—if Sam was really part of their operation, then he would understand the precaution Tony had to take here. 

“Try to come to bed tonight.” 

Tony nodded, already half distracted. Before James could pull fully away, however, Tony halted him in his tracks—James stopped and Tony narrowed his eyes as he stared at his husband. 

“Tony.” 

It was almost pleading, but it was the accepted resignation—Tony knew that James understood the hesitation, understood that anyone with the connection had to be looked into, however briefly and however informally—that finally softened Tony's gaze. 

“I'm sorry, I love you.” 

James—because the man was a saint, and Tony wore his name on dogtags like his mother wore St. Christopher's on a pendant, their metal clicking together on Tony's chest every day, every hour, so he would always remember what faith brought him—leaned into the kiss that Tony initiated, the two of them taking a singular moment before wading through the middle of what they had only been on the cusp of just scant minutes before. 

“Love you too.” 

It was easy right then. It would, however, only get harder.

### 

_“On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead.”_

### 

# New York DA Indicts Tech Guru Tony Stark: Racketeering, Laundering, and more

In a bizarre series of charges that feel like they belong in The Godfather, the DA's office has filed over fifty different charges against Stark Industries, Anthony Stark, and subsidiary businesses and non-profits that Stark, or Stark Ind., owns. Dow Jones has reported only a small drop in STRK stock, and with the company's new Clean Air Initiative passing both the House and Senate, it's this one reporter's opinion that going forward with this farce of an investigation has more to do with the DA's own political and social shortcomings than anything having to do with Stark. 

Let's look at the facts here, people: (1) DA Rogers is up for a recall election due to a popular outcry for resignation after a unanimous vote of 'no confidence' from a specially-appointed, independent counsel, (2) his stance on crime has been woefully neglectful of the actual problems citizens are experiencing within the city, and (3) he hasn't had a high-profile case since the beginning of his term. There is obvious and then there is _obvious_ , and it is _obvious_ that the DA is throwing whatever he can at the wall, hoping for something to stick. 

And if evidence does turn up conveniently? Well, we've all seen what fake evidence can do in a trial, even if the person is guilty of the crime. (Thank you Making a Murderer, for showing us all that a guilty person can also be investigated terribly—this is, of course, for those of you too young to remember gloves not fitting, and therefore acquitting.) 

Now, I'm not saying that I believe any of this indictment to be anything more than some odious BS, but if I _did_? DA, this is not the best way to go about this situation, I can assure you—the public is not on your side. 

For more about the special election, the committee involved with assigning an interim DA, and the social and scientific impact of Stark Industries, check out the 'recommended stories' at the top of the page. 

therealrealnyc.com and its affiliate sites are part of a broad entertainment media group and not a news outlet. Anything written or commented upon is for entertainment value only and should never be taken as one hundred percent fact.

* * *

The room was silent but for Tony's own recorded voice answering the questions from an increasingly bemused anchor and fencing the accusations from an increasingly agitated assistant DA—he, Pepper, and James were watching the interview with half an ear, concurrently trawling through the google notifications that had been popping up every few seconds about them since earlier that week. 

“Vanity Fair is still going to run their piece on you.” Pepper. 

“Times OpEd is now _requesting_ an interview from you.” James. 

“Only 'cause they've never had a good relationship with the DA's office,” Tony answered James, Pepper having already had abandoned their pseudo conversation for the greener pastures of holding her own with whoever was on the other end of her earpiece; by her furrowed brow it wasn't the best of conversations, and Tony nodded when she gestured to be let out of the room. 

“Talk later,” she mouthed, and Tony gave her back the 'okay' sign before heading over to the drawing room's raised bar area and guzzling down half of a bottle of water. 

“You've given the information to Izzy and Sam, right?” Tony asked, waiting until the interview had finished and James could give him his full attention. 

James nodded briskly and Tony followed his husband's motions as he watched the news of the rest of the world fly by, an unending half of an hour until something worthwhile happened—this week's theme seemed to be on the ever increasing trade wars, and Tony made a mental note to talk to his company's union rep and see what his workers needed during the incoming tariff hikes. 

A beep interrupted the news anchor on screen holding a lively discussion with the local plant lady, and Tony turned automatically to James, who quickly scanned whatever document had been sent to him. 

“Dugan's been reported missing,” 

“By who?”

“An alias, but it's Izzy's M.O.”

Tony drew in a breath, nodded, and drank the rest of the water. 

He turned to Natalia.“I want both of them brought up here A-SAP, okay? I want Jan and Hank called for parts.” Pausing for a breath, he then turned to James. “And I want the 40-footer ready to go in the morning for a surprise fishing trip for Peter. It's going to be a nice day, and with our bait? Who knows, we may even catch a sea monster.”

He paused, debating whether or not he wanted to go through with this last part. “And then I want you to go—Natalia can do this with me.” 

“Tony,” James started, but conceded whatever his protest when Tony only shook his head. 

“Seeing the dirt of the business is essential,” Tony stated, “but not this time.

“We'll do the next one together.” The promise he finished on was heartfelt; Tony was pretty sure James knew he was lying. If the entire thing went tits up, Tony was going to keep James as clean as possible, which mostly just meant that if he got charged, it wouldn't be for capital murder. 

“I'll keep Steve from getting re-elected,” James promised, and unlike Tony's, this one was real. 

“You do that, and then you can kill anyone you want to—I'm calling it, I'm getting Rhodey on as the next DA, it'll make everything a lot easier.” 

“He doesn't really want a desk job,” James pointed out, and Tony waved him off easily. 

“He'll do it if it involves less cover-up work from his end of things,” Tony replied, bringing James down to his level by the back of his neck. 

“Can you handle this, James?” It was quiet, serious, and it would be the one and only time Tony would give James this out—if his husband agreed, Tony expected this entire thing done to its end, and not done any differently just because it involved someone to whom James owed half of his formative years to friendship. 

“You know, when we got married, Steve said that he was so glad that he started working for your mother—that he had never seen me happier than I was when I was with you.” He paused. “He was right. I've never been happier than I am with you, despite everything that I know you wish I didn't have to deal with.” 

One of James' hand tangled in Tony's hair, the other making its way down Tony's jawline, and he stared, unblinkingly, back at Tony, who was more than willing to admit his inherent weakness for the other man. “I love you—I'm with you. For better or for worse, that's the cliché, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, weak-kneed and more than a little bit gone for James. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

  
**June 24  
CONFIDENTIAL, FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY**

_Let me be blunt._

_Steven G. Rogers, I do not know if you just did not receive my earlier memo, or if you chose to blithely ignore it. I can only assume that it was one of the two aforementioned thought processes, because I cannot fathom you being idiotic enough to see my warning, take heed of it, and proceed to do the one thing that will damn your career in this city—this nation, if my opinions of your political predilections are accurate—until you manage to change your name, change your face, and convince the public you never existed._

_We have absolutely **nothing** of note on Tony Stark, just evidence you've been promising for the last two years that has never been delivered, and we can't see—on a state level—okaying anymore of your fruitless endeavors if you cannot make something of your charges._

_This is your last warning, we can't help you anymore—your constituents don't even want you there._

_On a personal note: save face, drop the charges, maybe resign before your people force you out—you might get to D.C. that way._

_S.C._

* * *

# DA Rogers Named as Client of State Witness—It's a Prostitution Charge, Y'all!

Okay, so Mr. Steven Goody-two-shoes Rogers, you know, the DA we all voted for because he was the epitome of the real life Dr. McDreamy? Imagine a flag photoshopped behind him and you'll know what we mean. 

Well, it turns out that the DA isn't so good as he claims, if the testimony of Louisa Maria Espinoza is to believed. Rogers is one of the 47 named clientele Espinoza 'serviced' over the course of her career, the last two years of which she has worked in conjunction with the joint FBI-DEA taskforce on a larger sex and drug trafficking case. 

Espinoza, 27, is a Venezuelan national who came to the US illegally in 2007 for asylum, and who was immediately picked up by a pimp to work as a prostitute in our lovely city of New York. 

And District Attorney Steven Rogers? Well, apparently he likes a working woman, if you know what we mean. 

God, we wish there was video. Imagine saying the pledge of allegiance before cumming, and we're sure you're somewhere close to where Rogers probably was with this woman. 

Even worse than being caught with his pants down with an illegal immigrant, however, has to be the fact that just months ago he took a hard stance on the employment, gainful or otherwise, of illegal immigrants on the city's dime. So either he's a liar, or an idiot, and neither one is good for this city—but that's okay because no one really wants him here anyways. In the meantime, we've heard good things about Col. James Rhodes, so maybe check him out for future consideration—we sure will.

* * *

“Hello?”

A pause. 

“You're _calling_ me? What, is this from a payphone or something?” 

The clicking of James snapping his fingers brought Tony's eyes up from where they had previously been focused on his computer screen—James clicked the phone over to speaker as he crossed the room, perching himself on the edge of Tony's desk, next to him, as Tony backed his chair up a couple of inches in order for them to communicate more freely. 

“Hi, Tony.” 

It was something that Tony had been expecting since the last few days hadn't brought a peep from any sort of law enforcement, but the resigned aggravation in the other man's tone was still a surprising blow to hear from the person who had, at one time, been his husband's best man. 

“Hello DA Rogers,” he replied, blithe tone only betrayed to James by the tightening of the grips they had on each other's hands. “How can I help you? You know there's something about conflict of interest when you call up the man you're charging with a literal ass-load of felonies and you're the man prosecuting him, right? Actually, if I spoke with my lawyers, they would probably tell you about the utter illegality of it all—especially because, let me guess, you'd like to make me an offer I can't possibly refuse.” 

James' hand spasmed on top of Tony's own as he snorted out a laugh at his husband's words, a wiggle of Tony's eyebrows hardly doing anything to stymie his humor. 

“Tony—” a shift, a sigh, a snatch of conversation and Tony leaned back into his leather chair, engaging the stopper so it wouldn't roll away a natural reflex to his action, “I think we can do better, be better, is all. I think there's a different way.” 

“So this is, what?” Tony asked, letting his incredulity cloud his tone as he gestured for a pen and paper, “This is you gaining some sort of moral compass? Suddenly you're an 'aw, shucks, ma'am' sorta guy whose time as DA erases everything you've done?”

Steve didn't answer—Tony gave him more than enough time to answer. He laughed. 

“It is,” he scoffed. Steve was silent. 

“This is ridiculous. I can't believe I'm even having this conversation with you, what're you, some sort of verifiable fuckin' dolt or something? Baby, when they've seen what you've done, you'll be _buried_.” 

“You don't have anything on me, Tony. Nothing you can prove anyways. We worked all our jobs together—getting you out meant getting me out, and I was really good at my job.” 

It was calm, and though Tony knew Steve hadn't been planning on betraying them when he had been served the title of DA on a silver platter, the fact that the other man had _thought_ about it well enough to be so calm in the face of a mob boss out for your blood? 

If the man were smarter, Tony might have been worried—but Steve forgot one thing: he was never family, not really, and most certainly not when it mattered the most. 

And if someone wasn't family? 

You always had a backup plan. 

“I'll be seeing you. Soon.” 

They were the words Steve would have wanted to say—newly minted justice triumphing over the darkness that had been both a scourge and a blessing on the city for generations. 

But Tony? Tony made them a promise.

### 

_“[T]here is only this world, as it is now, and there has never been another, can never be any other.”_

### 

# DA Rogers LINKED to HOMICIDE of Predecessor

It's out of the frying pan, into the fire, and then into a small explosion this week for DA Rogers—after dropping all chargers against Stark Ind. CEO Anthony Stark, to having his internal polling leaked (bad numbers, unless his goal is to never be in public office again) to now being involved in a criminal investigation? (And not on the side the DA is usually on.) 

Three weeks ago, the remains of Francis Mendelsson were found in an unmarked, shallow grave near a local, wooded dog trail— his remains were found by a pair of intrepid mushroom hunters. When asked about the find, one of them had this to say: “Well, we're mushroom hunters, this isn't the first time we've stumbled on a corpse—not even the fifth; it's just part of the routine, really.” 

The police has since learned, and has deigned to give to the public, that the former DA was shot in the head, execution-style. 

It smells like a good, old-fashioned hit. 

For those of you new in the area, this comes as no surprise. The history of the Jarvis Family has its roots in both the French and British Families of the same name—at some point in the late 18th century, the two disparate families came together and left for the east coast, to build a criminal empire that historians tell us a psychic explained to them that they could rule until their line ran aground. 

Since then, as foretold, they have ruled the city—secret, in the background, with all our strings being pulled by their mastery. 

At least, that's what legend says. Real talk says, however, that everyone wants to shoot like they're in a movie and what's more silver-screen than point-blank, back of the head? 

And as for the DA? Well, the case went to the assistant, and our source at the office says that they're looking particularly closely at everything Rogers was up to leading up to the death, the night of, and the aftermath—particularly as it was so close after the narrow defeat DA Rogers had suffered due to the re-election of Mendelsson. 

So... Smells like a hit. 

@therealjeangrey

* * *

“My mother told me a story when I was little.” 

“About what?” Peter asked, his overly-bright tone unmistakable for anything other than wanting a distraction to the techniques Wanda was currently applying to the man on the other side of the room. Wade giggled from the rafters where he lounged when the man let out a warbled scream, cut-off by Wanda's next motion. 

James didn't believe that they could get anything from him, that his loyalty to the HYDRA Collective was too strong to glean anything more than false information and wasted time. But Tony? Tony knew a thing or two more than his husband about the art of gathering information; Wanda and her expertise was a major part of it—the other part was treating it as business as usual. In Tony's favor, both were easier than pie; he and Wanda were cut from the same cloth, really—he was just more keen to hide it. 

“About our history, our coming to America, how we became part of,” he gestured around, “all of this.” 

“Don't tell the kid stories, he'll believe them,” James admonished from the pile of boxes he was rooting through. 

“I believe them, so...” Tony retorted, ignoring Natalia's unbelievably unattractive snort. 

“It was my great-great-grandmother,” he continued, “she had three visions in her life, and all three of those defined generations to come. The first of the visions has come and gone with lasting impact, same as the third—we're dealing with the second one, the one that brought her to Spain and to a leading place in a burgeoning criminal empire.”

Peter gasped, followed by Wade's from where he had scuttled closer to listen in on the tale—even Wanda, for all she seemed focused on pulling teeth from the man tied to the metal chair, seemed to do her work with a distracted air, listening in on what was being said. James rolled his eyes, having heard the same story from Maria, and probably better than Tony could ever hope to tell it. 

“She _wasn't_.” 

Tony's sharp look stopped the young man from saying anything more. 

“She had awoken at three am, her sacrifice complete and her power lighting to life for a brief moment of clarity and—stepping over her husband's body, for a sacrifice cannot be completed without blood and intent—walked on foot, with child, to steal a horse. 

“She arrived in Spain weeks later and demanded to see the man who had consumed her dreams, the man to whose left hand side she was expected to take from the vision the fates bestowed. Her vision told him of unimaginable power should he go to America, but it told her that her line would eventually rule. 

“That line bore my mother, who bore me, and Edwin Jarvis never had any biological children.” 

He turned to Peter. 

“Nothing's guaranteed in life, but this is where the vision ended. Everything after me—everything I give to you, it's no longer foretold.” 

Peter swallowed and nodded, understanding without Tony having to spell it out any more than he already had. There was a thump to Tony's left and his eyes flickered to where Wade had deigned to come down from his perch; the man wasn't family, not yet, but Tony had no doubt it would be soon enough and Peter would be a blushing, stumbling mess the entire time. 

“Are you saying you're a witch?” Wade asked, leaning his elbow on Peter's shoulder while looking Tony up and down. “Where's your wart? It's on your ass, isn't it?” 

“Are you not Catholic?” Wanda asked at the same time, inspecting a ball-peen hammer for strength before turning to the sobbing schmuck who decided any loyalty he had was more important than his life—in any other circumstance, Tony would have admired him for lasting this long with such morals, but right now? All he wanted was for the man to _break_. 

“I am,” Tony agreed, his only response to Wade's question a wiggle of his ass that made Wade grin, Peter let out a small, disgusted noise, and James to grunt at—Tony was more than sure—so many people looking at his husband's ass. 

A slurred 'okay, okay, I'll talk' stopped any further conversation, and Tony shot James a smug smirk that he knew his husband could only interpret as 'told you so.' 

They always broke.

* * *

**Tony Stark** anthonystark@starkind.net  
to  
Sharon Carter, Steve Rogers  
**Board Minutes**

S.S & S.C., 

Attached are the minutes from the latest board meeting. Send any questions through Virginia Potts. I have addressed all concerns you had, please review for confirmation. 

Thank you both for your input in Stark Ind., and I hope we can continue our professional relationships. 

Sincerely, 

T.S.  
Sent from my StarkPhone 15:48 July 29, 20—

 **Tony Stark** anthonystark@starkind.net  
to  
Steve Rogers  
**Re:, Board Minutes**

sorry, that was meant for Strange, your addresses start the same & I havent deleted you.  
btw, dont you know sharon? or is that someone else in the state dpt? 

tony  
Sent from my StarkPhone 15:49 July 29, 20—

* * *

  
**July 29**  
**CONFIDENTIAL, FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY**  
Really, Sharon? Is this recent?

S.R. 

**July 29  
CONFIDENTIAL, FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY**  
Sorry, honey, sometimes it's just like that.

S.C. 

* * *

The bedroom was practically silent—a soft footfall of Sam's guard out in the hallway, the chatter of the nightlife that had grown back into the estate generations ago, their breaths out, in, out, in, out and the whisper of fabric as they shifted to more comfortable positions around one another—and Tony was loathe to actually penetrate their few moments of _being_ but, sighing and disconsolate, he realized there was never an actual choice. Not for this. 

“Hey, babe—” Tony started hesitatingly. He wondered when he had become this sort of man, when falling in love meant losing his edge to a certain extent, when asking his lover to kill a man meant something other than just asking the question and knowing what the answer would be. 

“Why are you asking me?” James interrupted, turning over to face Tony, their legs tangled beneath the thick throw. He pulled Tony close to him, the one time that Tony actually let himself be anything other than completely in control, aligning their noses until they were looking at one another at an uncomfortably close distance; James sighed when Tony stayed silent. 

“There's no question that I will.” 

Tony let out a breath, slowly, watching as the fringe from James' hair rippled gently against his forehead as his husband's eyebrows went from wryly bemused to lovingly worried. 

And Tony? Tony knew that he would guard this one weakness with his life—that James would be, since he knew what they were together, both the life and the inevitable death of him. A mobster gunned down by a set of pretty eyes, and while Tony would do what was necessary if it came down to it, he also knew that it never would. 

There were certain types of people in the world, and people like him and James? They would watch the world burn if it meant it being better for the both of them. 

“What if it became something more than just a hypothetical?” 

“It will,” James answered, “it's the only way this could have ended.” He shrugged and Tony felt a swell in his chest at the utter nonchalance his husband said the words with. “He was always too soft, too much time thinking about bullies and taking a stand and doing the right thing. 

“The law called to him—your job was just an easy way to go where he really wanted to be, even if he didn't know it yet. And then? Well, he realized that the way he knew wasn't for him.”

A sigh and Tony felt a kiss at the place behind his ear where his reading glasses had dug a dent into his skin years ago. 

“It's a difference of morality. A disagreement. And he knew what would happen if he no longer chose to be a part of it.” 

“I'm still sorry.” He shouldn't have said it, shouldn't have shown himself in that way, and yet... And yet. 

“Don't be,” James replied, easy and more than a little aware of what Tony wasn't expressing, of his worries and his 'shouldn't have's' and weaknesses that his mother, Jarvis, Ana, would have tsk'ed at, knowing that being in love did not cure all, never could; his father had died when Tony was young, a genius stripped away from life before his time and all the world would never know that his body was rotting in an oil barrel at the bottom of a grave on public lands, dead because he thought he could be more than what the Family had given him—he took that mistaken belief to the grave, as did all the traitors and the liars and the cheats of those they were once close to. 

“Baby, it's you and me to the end of it all, until the line's drawn and the fall's next.” 

Tony snorted and tugged at James' hair, bringing him down by the back of his neck for a rough kiss; their chests, stomachs, hips, groins brushed and Tony threw James down on the mattress, the pillow creasing where his husband's head was thrown back and they performed their marital rites for only them, God—and most likely Sam—to hear.

* * *

His footsteps echoed on the varnished oak floor, smart, Italian-made dress shoes clicking with every step—the gun in his jacket was loose, and it swayed in time with his steps. The restaurant was empty except for the owner, the chef, Tony, and the man he was scheduled to make a deal with. 

“I'm gonna give it to you straight, this is my first time doing something like this,” Tony said as he rounded the back of the table and took a seat across from the older man, ten minutes later than their expected meeting time. 

“Yeah, because it's something _I_ do all the time,” Nick Fury snorted out, swirling his untouched glass of wine around in his glass before setting down the glass with an audible 'thunk.' “You're the third mob boss I'm making a deal with tonight, and I still got one more after this.” 

Tony huffed out a laugh, pouring himself a glass of wine and gulping half of it down—Commissioner Fury did the same, and Tony gestured for the owner to get them their starters. 

They ate in silence for the first few minutes of their 'Ceasefire Accords' meeting, the clinking of silverware against the plates their only accompaniment. Surprisingly, sitting across from the New York City Police Commissioner was less than a stress than Tony would otherwise have thought, and while he would never put his guard down, he did deign to let his spine relax the slightest of bits, aware that even a minor show of trust at this moment would leverage his advantage—more so than making the commissioner metaphorically blink first would have. 

Fury looked tired. It was the first thing that Tony actually noticed about the older man beyond the superficial the few minutes before had provided, and he gestured for another bottle of wine. He knew that the game he was playing with Steve Rogers was putting undue stress on the actual bureaucracy of the city, especially that of the justice department, but he also knew that there was nothing to be done for it until one of them was taken care of; Tony had been planning contingencies for too many years to be the one to be disappeared between the two of them. 

“Okay,” Tony finally stated, wiping at the corners of his mouth with his napkin after their smaller plates had been taken away. He watched Fury's jaw twitch, watched his grip grab tighter on the stem of his wine glass, watched him take a breath and steel himself for making a deal with the devil—Tony _did_ enjoy it when he saw his opponent's morals try to reconcile with what they were doing, what they were agreeing to and who with. Their sense of self never made it out unscathed. 

Tony had been waiting a long, long time to watch Nick Fury squirm. 

“We are willing to—” a harsh swallow and Tony knew the bitterness was more than just the wine. He leaned forward, the upward quirk of his mouth—just an iota, just enough to show how much he was enjoying this—lingering as the police commissioner took a moment to gather himself, the steel in his eyes flashing in challenge. There was no need to challenge Tony, he had already won—he admired the man for his gumption, a lion in a cage, still proud, still unable to understand its own capture. 

“We are willing to let go of future... _indiscretions_ that are made in your stead. 

“If—” his continuation was the one thing that made Tony uneasy, and he hurried to say it out loud before the other could. 

“If I let you know when people are committing crimes, yeah, yeah. You want dirt on the small-time and the up-and-coming, I get it.

“So do we have a deal?” 

Because Tony might be wary, but he could also make it work; with nowhere else to go and unable to work lawfully, Tony and his family would become the last bastion of criminality in the city. It might take awhile, and he knew he would make enemies he wouldn't have had had he not gone down this path, but he also knew that when he got a man like Nick Fury to make a deal with him, well, then it _only_ a matter of time before all would work itself out. 

“Deal,” Fury agreed, nodding once, sharp, and more than a little moralistic for someone whom Tony knew to already let criminals go with a shake of the head and a pat on the back. 

He held out his hand, as teasing and inviting as such a gesture could be, and he watched as a brief hint of distaste crossed Fury's expression, before he took Tony's hand. It was a hard shake, and Fury stood up right after finishing his glass of wine and snatching up the unopened bottle. 

“Oh,” Tony exclaimed before Fury could leave, the owner of the restaurant hurrying to shove a to-go box filled with an entree and dessert at the commissioner as the older man stood still, half turned away from Tony but definitely paying attention. 

“So when Rogers is voted out—I know someone who's throwing their tie in the ring so to speak, and I think you should take a look at him. He's a great candidate for official police endorsement, goes by the name of James Rhodes—I think he's right up your guys' avenue.” He shrugged. 

“But what do I know, right? You'll endorse whoever you feel is best, I'm sure.” 

Fury grunted his reply—the bell above the door gave a ringing jingle as he walked out, the door unable to be slammed severely, Tony was sure, impacting his departure. A few moments later the door jingled open again, and he looked up to see Wanda, Natalia, and Wilson—Sam—walk through and make a beeline for him. 

“Yes?” he asked, waving for three more wine glasses to be procured as they sat down at the table, Natalia next to him and Wanda and Sam on the other side. 

“Went well?” Sam asked, thanking the owner as he came back with the glasses and the extra food that the chef had made; Wanda closed her eyes for a moment, crossing herself after, before eating—Natalia and Sam had no such qualms, but Tony waited until the young woman was finished before answering. 

“Well enough,” he said, shrugging and giving a half-nod as the owner of the restaurant put down another bottle of wine, scuttling away and, tucked at a corner table, started the nightly books—Tony knew that the addition of obvious mob thugs had startled the man to reality; he might have been in the family, but being in a periphery position was a lot different than seeing it up close and in your livelihood. Tony went to this restaurant a lot, but never usually with business in mind and a bribe in his hand. Or at least not so conspicuously.

“How'd it go with you guys?” he asked, hoping to a God he knew had little to do with it all that there was no snags. 

“It went well enough,” Wanda parroted, before exchanging a look with Natalia, “but of course there was a small problem.” 

“How small?” Tony asked, pinching the bridge of his nose as Sam snorted and shook his head. 

“We cannot,” a pause and Tony knew this was Wanda not wanting to be the messenger of this particular missive, “we cannot locate one of the bodies. We searched in the marked area, but someone seemed to have gotten there before we did.” 

“The soil was way too easy to displace,” Natalia agreed. 

“We're thinking it's Rogers—there's a night last week where we've now found out he wasn't where he was supposed to be.” 

“And how did that slip?” Tony asked, allowing an edge to creep into his voice as he felt a migraine come on. 

“James' taking care of it, but I think it was just a newbie who didn't want to admit that their tail was made.” 

“Whose body was it?” 

The three of them exchanged another long look, and Tony felt a chill of unease creep, unrelentingly, up his spine. 

Finally, after clearing her throat, Natalia spoke: 

“Edwin Jarvis.”

* * *

**Steven Rogers** steverogers101@mail.com  
to  
NY Times EIC  
**Story about Blowing Whistles**

Can we meet tomorrow? Before lunch? The cafe by the newspaper's office and you'll see it's real. 

I have a lot of information about a lot of things, and I don't care about what happens to me anymore, because this _needs_ to be made public. I've done a lot of bad things in my life, in the name of what I thought was good, and I've realized that it wasn't, and I need everyone to know who and what I worked for. 

S. Rogers

* * *

The click of the lock disengaging made Tony look up from where he had been sitting, staring at his phone in the semi-darkness. He turned it off, facing the door fully as it opened, the blond who opened it swearing softly to himself as he kicked it shut while still trying to juggle all of his groceries. The door clicked shut behind him, and it was only then that Tony felt his presence noticed—the groceries dropped as the man spun around, dropping his hand to his waistband before realizing he didn't carry a gun around willy-nilly anymore. 

“And I thought I'd gone soft,” Tony sighed out, shaking his head as he lounged in the one chair in the room, “but really Steve, this is ridiculous.” 

“How'd you know I didn't go this easy on purpose?” Steve asked, his eyes darting to the corner of the room, where they squinted, trying to see who Tony took with him for this confrontation. Tony knew Steve wouldn't be able to see who it was, but he liked how the DA tried, futility, to scrape for some tell, for someone he could exploit his former camaraderie with. He wouldn't find that here. 

“Because you're a terrible liar to those of us who know your tells,” Tony retorted, “and I saw panic in your eyes when you didn't have your gun.” 

“Fine.” Steve's tone was aggravated, furious, earnest—the tone that made Tony start social projects and community building and philanthropic ventures—and he crossed his arms against his chest. “What are you here for?” 

“What did you do with the body?” 

Steve's smile was a little cruel, a little smug, and Tony's fists clenched against the armrests of the chair. 

“What body?” 

“Jarvis'.” It was ground out, open salt in a wound that never healed, and Steve goddamn well knew that. A series of scenes flashed through Tony's brain—an ice pick through Steve's ear, a nice curb stomping, even just the smallest of tastes of the hint of breaking, that would be enough—and he shook his head slightly as the shadow in the corner of the room shifted closer, as though noticing where his mind had gone to. 

“Who's that? Natalia, right? Or Sam, to show me that he's loyal to you despite me? ” Steve called out, seeing the motion that Tony had made, must have heard the whisper of fabric moving from behind him. 

“Where's Jarvis?” Tony asked again, “And I'm not going to ask a third time.” 

“Why do you care?” Steve asked, taking two steps to Tony so he was towering over the other man; Tony, for what it was worth, felt no compulsion to stand up and prove his worth in a pissing match he knew he would win. 

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” Tony sighed out, reaching into his holster and pulling out his gun, clicking the safety off. 

“ _What'd you do with his body_?” 

Steve grinned. “You mean after you murdered him? Or just last week—because I know which one is more interesting to _me_.” 

Without Tony having to say a word, Natalia stepped out from the room behind Tony, and Steve's surprise at seeing her come from the opposite direction was evident in the way he hardly resisted as she sat him down on the couch on the other side of the coffee table from Tony. 

“Tony, I'm not gonna tell you.” It was sighed out, almost disappointed, as though Steve expected Tony to 'see the light' now that Steve had, expected Tony to stay weak after another betrayal. 

“I know everything you can do to make people talk, and you know I won't.” 

Tony nodded, agreeing with Steve. 

“You're right, I know you wont,” Tony started, Natalia holding Steve's face still as the shadow clinging to the corner behind him started moving to Tony—he smiled at his husband as he settled behind him, arms crossed, standing behind the chair that Tony occupied. He held his gun up once more. 

“The thing is? You see it as a boon, like it's your 'get outta jail free' card because I need to know the location.” 

He leaned forward a little bit. Natalia's nails bit into Steve's skin and Tony watched as pinpricks of red bloomed into small lines dripping down the side of Steve's neck—no matter how tough they were, they always flinched at the first draw of blood. 

“But,” Tony tried not to let too much of a smile glean as he sing-songed, “I know something you don't know.” 

“What's that?” 

This was it—it became obvious to Tony in that question, something about how he said it, the tension, the barely concealed _fear_ that was almost a palpable stench—this was the moment where Steve realized he was cornered. 

“You can try to pin me to murder, or laundering, or extortion, or fraud, anything and everythhing that you want—nothing'll ever happen. It turns out? The DA's just the icing on top of the cake, baby, _not_ the whole bread and butter.” 

Steve blinked, sighed, blinked again. 

“I can't believe it took me this long to realize.” 

“What?” Tony asked, shrugging as Natalia shot him an annoyed glance—why not let the man say his piece? No harm in a dead man sitting. 

“That you weren't doing this _because_ of a corrupt city, but instead were trying to regain control of a corruption that had been slowly wheedled away from your Family piece by piece.” 

“You're right,” Tony agreed easily, “except I've always had it and you only helped me out in keeping it—your help was, however, invaluable at the time. But now? Oh, now you're too little, too late to board this train.” 

Steve's smile, this time, was more sad than anything else—as though he had seen the future he had helped create and was, for the first time, regretful of his impact. Tony watched his eyes become little bits of ice, colder every moment he recognized that his goals and Tony's goals were never fully aligned. 

Then he straightened, locking eyes with James'.

“Bucky?” he asked, a final desperation in a man with only that to lose. 

“Sorry, Stevie, sometimes it's just like that.” 

James shrugged. 

Natalia let go of Steve.

Tony pulled the trigger. 

Five minutes later, the building burned.

### 

_“Living is best, but if you can't live, well, life is like that, sometimes.”_

### 

“Have you considered helping me out with digging this?” Sam huffed out, and he could feel Tony smirk, even if he couldn't see it—there was a pronounced aura whenever the man made that particular face. 

“You're going to be Peter's main starting tomorrow—I figure I oughta make you do one last night of grunt work.” 

“Yeah, and let me throw out my back while I'm at it,” Sam grumbled, wiping away the sweat on his brow as he took a few breaths in of the salty cool air. This close to the coast and you couldn't get away from the smell—it smelled like home and Sam had never been more grateful than getting this job, because no matter the couple months he was under suspicion, the aftermath was worth it. 

“You're the one who kept bragging to Natalia about how fast you could dig a grave, what did you expect to happen, Sam? Did you expect she wouldn't immediately come to me about it to make you suffer?”

He paused as he watched Sam try and stave off a blush, which—it's not like Tony could see it, even if Sam _were_ blushing, because it was dark out. 

“She finds that sadism stuff to really be her thing—I bet she's watching you suffer right now to get off later to tonight.” 

“I mean, a man can hope.” Sam's tone came out as more a grunt as his small break let his body know how sore it actually was. Tony's head poked down as he peered into the hole to see where Sam was at in his progress. 

“That's good enough,” he heard, and Tony waited for Sam to clamber out of the ground before getting a firm hold on the tarp holding the body tight. 

“Ready?” he asked, and Sam nodded—after a count of three, they pushed the body into the grave and crossed themselves before piling up dirt over it. 

About halfway through the process, the ringtone indicating James was calling came through Tony's phone speakers, and he leaned against his shovel to answer. 

“What's up, baby?” 

He motioned for Sam to continue to work as he listened to whatever his husband had to say on the other end of the line. 

“The police chief, you say?” 

The tone was intrigued, and Sam rolled his eyes fondly, knowing that whatever he would be doing with Peter would, in absolutely no way, be as crazy as guarding Tony. Still though—he started to pile dirt o top of the body once more as he listened with half an ear to the bright chatter—it was always a wild ride with Tony, and he would miss it. 

Especially considering that dealing with Wade Wilson would be more of a nightmare to Sam than Tony could ever dream of being.

### 

_“[...]choosing is hard—one choice is never the end of the story.”_

### 

**Author's Note:**

> So, going into this, I wanted to be able to explore the darker side of characters, the moral situations people put themselves in, and how you can be a good person to those you love and a terrible person in general at the same time. I especially wanted the audience to root for Tony, even with Steve as the obvious moral and ethical center of the fic. I hope I could accomplish this sort of setting, or even a reader thinking about what morality entails, personally and on a structural level. 
> 
> CWs (spoilers ahoy): torture, enjoying torture, burying dead bodies with a particular nonchalance that you can only accomplish after killing a lot of people, oh and Tony kills Steve. Tony, James, & co., are not very good people, honestly. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this and please feel free to ask any questions or voice any concerns in the comments, or feel free to contact me at: newyorktopaloalto@mail.com


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